I’m sitting in front of the laptop screen when Sammy stands on the threshold and asks if I want to take a ride. I look at an email I’m in the middle of writing and realize that I really don’t have anything better to do.

That’s the truth.

I put on my red-hooded sweatshirt and follow Sammy out the garage door and into his fuel-efficient Toyota Prius. Ten gallons of regular unleaded gets Sammy a little over 480 miles, city driving.

That’s something to be happy about, I think. I think, 48 miles per gallon, 48 miles for $2.71, hey, that’s a lot more reasonable than driving a big ol’ Hummer around. The road will be a better place without those monolithic Behemoths crowding up the lanes. After all, I think, they were strictly a military vehicle used to launch rockets off, I don’t know who had the idea of making the Hummer civilian, but it wasn’t a good idea, like a fish out of water, and the market is just now realizing this.

Sammy stops our ride at a credit union to deposit cash and checks. I ask if there’s any difference between a credit union and a regular ol’ bank. Sammy doesn’t have an answer for me. He does remark, however, that it’s an interesting question.

It’s Friday, I say, but only because I just now realize how beautiful life is.

Sammy nods gravely. He’s wearing sunglasses that wrap around his eyes and temples like something out of the future.

It’s Friday, I repeat, catching the contagious end-of-the-week bug,

Sammy turns up the radio. The bass and the movement carry us to his friend’s house. His name: Santa. I’ve never met Santa, but Sammy says I’ll like him.

He’s right up my alley.

After ringing the door bell and pounding loudly on the knocker, we wait no less than five minutes before Santa unlocks two bolts and puts his weight into opening sesame.

I see a set of golf clubs at the foot of the stairs, which are carpeted and cleaned. At the top of the stairs, Santa’s spiked golf shoes. Playing on the super flat and super plasma TV, the golf channel, HD. I see some kid swing a club. The mic picks up the flush sound of divot. Camera one switches to camera two, which follows the flight of the white pill against a blue sky. Camera two switches to camera three, which catches the white pill bouncing a few times on the green until it rolls and comes to a stop three feet from the hole.

Golf claps follow. I love the sound of golf claps, but only because it’s Friday and life is beautiful.

Santa keeps a Pitbull in a cage. It’s a blue Pit, and it barks deeply at me when I get too close. Santa says that Lascivious doesn’t like guys.

Lascivious barks at everything with a penis, says Santa. The only penis allowed in this world, says Santa, is Lascivious’s penis. But women, says Santa, Lascivious loves him some women. Lascivious can’t get enough of women.

Laughter comes easily to me, especially since Santa is a funny dude, and Lascivious is just about the best name for an unneutered blue Pit.

Sammy picks up a hat on the kitchen counter. It’s branded with Nike’s logo for Tiger Woods. Once Sammy picks this hat up, we all know where we’re headed.

Sammy is the first the get the Tiger train rolling. He says, Can you fucking imagine the parties this guy had? Naked girls walking around everywhere. So many girls he had to lather himself up in oil just to walk through them.

Santa was next to speak:

Eighteen. Can you believe it? Eighteen girls. From the ugliest bitch I’ve ever seen to the finest. Tiger had them all. But it’s not like Elin didn’t know what she was getting into. C’mon! All the professional golfers’ wives knew about Tiger’s reputation. Shit, he was with other girls when he started messing around with Elin!

I experience a moment of utter epiphany. No exaggeration. I say, Yeah, it’s not like Tiger wasn’t the same before he met Elin. He has a history, he follows a pattern, like Wade Boggs.

Exactly! People act like he was created from earth and shit, but he’s been making beds rock everywhere. And have you heard the messages? Oh my God, seriously. There was one with Tiger saying, I will wear you out.

Santa configures his right hand into a flip phone and leans into the receiver, bobbing his head all ronrico like and romanticizing his voice, he says, I will wear you out.

Sammy looks at me and waits for me to laugh at what I thought was reenactment, a Santa Production, but what was actually misleading libel. In the name of truth, Tiger didn’t actually say, I will wear you out, he sexted, I will wear you out. A-ha!

Santa:

If Tiger gets his wife to stay with him, this’ll be, by a long shot, the greatest save of all time.

Sammy chimes in with,

What about Kobe’s save? That was pretty good.

Santa:

C’mon. One girl. That’s all Kobe had to admit to: one girl. Tiger, on the other hand, Tiger’s got eighteen, eighteen, with documented raunch. Kobe’s got nothing on Tiger. But Kobe did give her a four million dollar ring. I’m talking about the fattest yellowest rock on the planet. If I were her, I’d be playing the same game. I’d be like, I think I need a trip, you remember that time Kobe when you fucked up, yeah, I think I need a trip to help me get over my trauma. Hell yeah, I’d be playing the same game.

Here, Santa breaks,

and Sammy wanders too close to Lascivious. Silence takes hold of our dialogue after one bark from inside the dog cage. Playing on the super flat and super plasma TV, a white pill sailing across the blue sky. What contrast, I think.